


Of Gossamer Suspended

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Twitter Fic [16]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bugs & Insects, Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 01:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: SMALL, viewless aeronaut, that by the lineOf Gossamer suspended, in mid airFloat'st on a sun beam--Living atom, whereEnds thy breeze-guided voyage;--with what design,In ether dost thou launch thy form minute,Mocking the eye?--Alas! before the veilOf denser clouds shall hide thee, the pursuitOf the keen Swift may end thy fairy sail!--Thus on the golden thread that Fancy weavesBuoyant, as Hope's illusive flattery breathes,The young and visionary poet leavesLife's dull realities, while sevenfold wreathsOf rainbow-light around his head revolve.Ah! soon at Sorrow's touch the radiant dreams dissolve!





	Of Gossamer Suspended

**Author's Note:**

> Title/Poem: Sonnet LXXVII, To the Insect of the Gossamer || Charlotte Turner Smith
> 
> Originally posted to twitter. Cleaned up and completed for AO3. See end notes for semi-spoilery squick warnings.

Hux strides across the bridge, back ridged, ram-rod straight. His commandership is still new, still fragile. The specter of his father's rule still hangs heavy in the atmosphere of the ship. Hux is shaken, but he cannot show it. He cannot let any of the old guard see him squirm.

Supreme Leader Snoke had sent Hux and the Finalizer to complete an  _ important _ task. Hux had balked when the details of their mission had come to light: retrieve one, lone boy from the Sluis Sector. 

According to Snoke’s instructions, when they reached the sector they would be able to pick up the weak signal from a beacon he'd evidently built himself. From there they would be able to pinpoint his location. They were offered no more specific coordinates.

Hux considered it a waste of time and resources. It was ridiculous. If the boy must be retrieved, so important was he to Snoke in all of the Leader's mysterious machinations, they could have sent a shuttle with a squad of troopers; not the entire damn flagship and half of top command! 

When they reached the Sluis Sector, they began scouring realspace for a signal. It took hours -- fourteen systems and trade route choked with craft masked what they were looking for. Finally --  _ finally! _ \-- with the combined efforts of the comms department and special intelligence they picked up a weak signal. Weak, because among all of the stronger signals bombarding their antennas, the dolt had programmed the damned beacon to broadcast in microwave. 

Of all the frequencies he could have chosen, especially if he were smart enough to build his own beacon, micro was absolutely the worst. The whole galaxy -- the whole universe, for that matter -- was drenched in background microwaves. In old tech, if you tuned between signals, you could hear the pop and hiss of them over the air. 

The tiny, wavering static sound of the signal hit Hux like a solid wave. His gut twisted with a morbid kind of nostalgia that he pushed down until it melded with the rest of the nausea and frustration that this entire stupid flight had caused him. 

Snoke insisted that Hux venture dirtside himself. He took mild offense at the notion. First, because his boots had not touched a planet's surface in years. Second, because it reduced Hux to a mere errand boy, picking up a package and delivering it.

Hux followed command.

The signal drew them toward the Dagobah System and into the orbit of the principal planet itself. They circled, launching a small recon-sat to pinpoint the precise location of the signal. Zeroed in at last, Hux boarded his shuttle, a small group of his rarely used personal trooper guard in tow. They made quick work of the landing. They hardly needed to keep a good lock on the beacon signal when there was a plume of heavy, noxious smoke to guide them to their destination. 

What Hux saw when they touched down would never leave him. The boy was hardly that; which was the first thing that became obvious when they found him. He was sat near the beacon, watching its fluctuating signal closely. He seemed to be weighed down by the destruction around him as if it were a heavy blanket across his shoulders. There were the remains of what looked like some ancient temple, fire still blazing and smoke choking everything. The boy -- the  _ man _ looked up at Hux and spoke in a low rumble. 

"They're all dead. Except for these, who wish to join me under Master Snoke's command."

"What do you mean, all dead?"

"I've killed them, as Master Snoke bid."

Disturbed, Hux ordered his men to stay with the man and the battered group who came out of hiding on his prompting. Hux himself ventured inside the smoldering structure.

There were acolytes, students of some kind by their dress, cut down where they sat at lesson or meditation. Slaughtered where they slept in the small rock bungalows in the property beyond the main building. So much death and destruction brought by  _ one man _ , and of that Hux was somehow entirely certain. The battered little group left living hadn’t helped him. 

He stood for a moment beside the entirely crumbled pile of stone and wood where a bungalow once stood, where the path of it all seemed to radiate out from. Hux returned to his landing party swiftly and ordered everyone aboard. His shuttle was one built for diplomatic travel, there was no secure hold. Unsure of what he was dealing with, he took a seat in the cockpit and sealed the door, leaving his troopers with blasters trained on their new cargo. 

Aboard the Finalizer, Hux stood at the far end of the medbay room where the man they'd been sent to fetch was isolated. His white acolyte's clothes were streaked and muddied with soot and ash and dirt and blood. His hands trembled with what Hux thought must be dehydration and exhaustion. He refused to surrender the strange weapon he carried. Hux and the medical officers would come to realize that the broad wounds on his arms and across his thigh were inflicted by a weapon of similar kind. 

"Who are you?" Hux asked, voice soft but clear.

The man looked up at him with glassy eyes, face half obscured in filth and his own dirty curtain of hair. "I am no one," he whispered. 

Now, Hux stands at the command console, gripping the edge as tight as his fingers will allow. The digits turn white with the effort. When the man spoke, so quiet and lost in the sterile cavern of the medbay, it had chilled Hux to the bone. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut and worked so many claws into the lining. It flutters now, thousands of wings all fighting for space to take flight. 

Hux directs the crew to take them back to orbit around Starkiller Base and counts the moments until they are ready to jump to hyperspace. Sweat beads on the back of his neck. He shivers as it soaks into his collar and cools under the flow from the artificial atmo circulator. 

"Sir," his lieutenant says quietly, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Hux hisses. "Get back to work."

He's left alone for several glorious minutes while they near the jump. As they break through the realspace barrier and plunge into the blinding light of hyperspace, Hux's ears begin to ring. He coughs once, twice. His throat is dry, the smoke from the ruined temple finally getting to him now that he's trying to readjust to the perfect humidity and particulate levels aboard the ship. He coughs again and feels as though the rations he had for breakfast may make a reappearance. The lieutenant is speaking to him again and he waves them away. He coughs and something dislodges itself from the back of his throat. It flutters, tickling the roof of his mouth. Small, sharp points touch his gums, his tongue. He coughs again, into his hand, hunched forward against the annoyance of the lieutenant. He looks in horror at the thing he's spit out. 

It is white, shining and iridescent against the leather of his glove. It seems stunned for a second and then flutters its wings, begins to move. 

Hux crushes it in his grip, shoves his hand down into the pocket of his greatcoat. 

"Sir, if you're ill you must go to the medbay. If you've brought something from the surface onto the ship, sir, you --" Their face is full of disgust and fear. They’ve seen.

"Shut  _ up _ ."

"Sir, regulation states --"

"I know what regulation states, I  _ made _ the fucking regulations. I am fine. If I was not, I would not put my crew in danger. Now get out of my face."

It isn't difficult to fabricate a reason to court marshal the lieutenant. Hux looks down at the crushed insect in his hand as they are airlocked just outside of Starkiller's orbit. 

The man and his cohorts are evaluated exhaustively by the medical staff. They're hosed off, decontaminated per protocol, wounds tended to. They're given injections of vitamins and hydration drips. Their eyes begin to look less glassy, skin less sallow. 

After several day-cycles in which they do little more that sleep when they are not being fed or treated, Supreme Leader Snoke makes contact. He demands their transport to his secure base. Hux is glad to have them gone. He sees that they are loaded into a shuttle and sent away. 

They look out of place in the shapeless medbay clothes they are all dressed in, bent and frightened. Just before the hatch of the shuttle slides closed, the man who they were sent to fetch turns back. His eyes search the hangar for a moment before the fall on Hux and hold his gaze, pinning him in place. He turns away and boards, swallowed by metal shell. 

Hux must turn and cover his mouth, feigning irritation by the dust that is kicked up by the shuttle's thrusters. Another of the strange, iridescent insects tumbles from his lips. While it is stunned he drops it, crushes it beneath his heel. He casts a hard look at the service crew and orders them to sanitize the hangar, pointing to the thing crushed on the floor. He wants the area spotless, they cannot have foreign material aboard unchecked.

It happens again and again. Just one strange insect each time. 

Hux is scared, increasingly so. He's picked something up on Dagobah, he's sure. So much of that planet is undocumented. So much of it is covered in marshes and swamps, filled with creatures to fuel nightmares. He tells himself that he is being foolish when his mind wanders, trying to reason the persistent cough and upset stomach with having inhaled some sort of parasite. It's clearly set up camp inside of him and...  _ no _ . 

He's not some fresh-meat cadet. He cannot be frightened by a ridiculous notion like this. It will resolve itself. He just needs to keep on with his duties as usual. 

When his cough does  _ not _ go away, the medbay notices. The chief medical officer pays him a visit, begs to be allowed to examine him -- he must be ill from inhaling the smoke and ash where they made landing, the others were as well, Hux didn't have the benefit of a filtered mask like the troopers. Hux submits to examination under the condition that it be conducted in his quarters. 

That evening, Hux allows himself to be poked and prodded, begging whatever power there may be in the universe that it does not happen again. It doesn't, at least not until the medical officer leaves. While he is showering, washing away the invasive feeling of unwanted touch, no less than a dozen of the insects fall from his lips. Hux must lean back against the wall for support, a hand on his knees and one arm wrapped around his abdomen.

He watches them struggle in the swirling water on the floor of his shower stall before they are pulled down into the drain. He cannot catch his breath in the heat and the wet air. Hux stumbles from the refresher and collapses onto his bed, chest heaving. 

Hux notices over the course of the next several weeks that if he is focused on his affliction, it gets worse. If he tries to stop the insects from coming, they come in droves. It is like his body is rebelling in spite. If he is focused on other things, mind latched onto his work in a vice grip, the affliction eases. 

Once, in private, he makes efforts not to crush the thing that comes out of him. They seem to be less stunned each time and he must crush it somehow immediately to keep it from fluttering away. This one, he traps beneath a glass from his bar. It batters itself silly against the walls of the miniature prison, making tiny, tinkling sounds as it does. Hux sits across the table from it, datapad in hand, searching for the identity of the insect and hoping that he might find some way to rid himself of them. This has gone on for too long. 

He begins his search on Dagobah. With no luck he expands the next into the system and then the sector, the rim. Finally, frustrated, he programs a general search of the holonet. The datapad plinks with results after a few moments, his vague parameters dragging the program's speed down. 

The insect is some kind of rare moth, it seems. Found only on Chandrila, and highly endangered. Killing one within the Bormea Sector is punishable with hefty fines, damaging a nest subject to a detention sentence in addition. Hux thinks of the dozens he has crushed and drowned. He laughs, a little hysterical. 

He does not sleep that night. His bed is littered with moths when his waking alert sounds.

Over the course of those same weeks, Hux's console is flooded with intelligence from his informants within the Senate and those he has made comfortable on Populist faction planets. Leia Organa has been forced to step down from her seat, beyond that there is no hope that she will take up any position as some unifying figurehead as Mon Mothma once was. She has, instead, been exposed as a fraud. 

The galaxy is in an uproar and Hux knows that he must move swiftly to secure the Order's interests. The likes of Carise Sindian can only get them so far, especially when more concerned with her own interests and grabs for personal power and luxury. Hux sends message after message, makes endless holocalls. Things are beginning to move swiftly and he must keep up. He cannot allow any of the old Imperials to scoop him. 

Interestingly, Organa seems to be taking a real step back rather than a figurative one. Beyond the reports of her newly discovered parentage, there is little else. That is, until, tragedy strikes. A number of Hux's contacts forward him an article from the Core's newsdigi. Organa's son is missing, presumed dead along with a number of others ranging in age from very young to mature who were living at a monastery school led by Luke Skywalker. 

The article takes time to remind readers that Skywalker and Organa were apparently twin siblings, both offspring of Darth Vader. It does not need to be said, after that, what the school's purpose was. Anyone alive before the formation of the New Republic would understand immediately. 

The article includes the last known picture of Ben Solo. It's several years old, taken at a trial for the Five Sabers race. Solo had entered under a false identity, lying about his age to qualify. He was discovered when his speeder crashed and he had to be cut out of the craft by an emergency team. When questioned by racing authorities, he had said very simply that he wanted to show his father he was good enough. Han Solo, of course, aside from his history in the war, was an overseer for the races and sponsored a team. 

The picture was enough to make Hux stop and take a deep breath. Ben Solo was eerily familiar. Hux covered half of the image, focusing on the teenager's large, expressive eyes. He struggled to breathe, nausea gripping him and making him unsteady even in his seat. When his head stopped ringing, four moths lay twitching and crumpled on the console.

Over the next year, Hux's place in the Order becomes more and more concrete. 

Battles are won under his direction, small and large. The trooper program flourishes, the last of those who operated under Brendol either sent to die in battle or neatly taken care of by Captain Phasma. The old Imperials have no choice but to defer to him when Snoke finally makes it clear that Hux answers directly and only to him, regardless of anyone else's rank or reputation. 

In that time a new enemy comes forward. Where Organa could no longer function as a foil against the Order's progress in the Senate, she has taken up arms. It's no matter. Starkiller Base is slowly but surely coming to completion. Hux is in this war for the long game -- a few skirmishes here and there with antique ships commanded by antique personnel won't deter him; nor any number of hotshot pilots who think they'll make a name for themselves taking out a shield or two. 

In that  _ same  _ time, the debate over Ben Solo's fate never dies. 

Centrist publications reason that the boy must have been like Skywalker and Vader before him, a Force user. They say that logic would only allow for Ben having turned to the Dark. That he murdered the inhabitants of the monastery and razed it to the ground. His disappearance, body unable to be located among the ruins, confirms his guilt. If he is not dead already as well, he should be found and executed. 

Populists have another theory. Ben has clearly been taken. It's true that he's Vader's kin just as much as Organa. But did Skywalker not defeat Vader? Help to destroy the Death Star and defeat the Empire? Surely, blood alone, even deceitful as his is, should not condemn the boy. An entity of darkness, evil certainly, committed that heinous act. But, the boy should be considered a victim until evidence can convince the High Courts otherwise. 

It strikes Hux that every time Ben Solo is discussed he is "a boy." Hux needs no additional evidence or convincing that Solo was the man he was sent to retrieve for Snoke on Dagobah. Solo is no boy, no innocent, no victim. They all keep running the same photos: Solo in fine robes, a member of the Junior Legislators. Solo with his sad eyes after crashing in his illegal bid to qualify for the Five Sabers. 

They seem to forget that people age. They change. 

The insect-affliction continues. 

Hux has lost count of the number of moths that have come out of him. 

He has given up in trying to determine where exactly they are coming from, from his belly -- chest -- throat -- the delicate passages behind his nose and eyes. He has submitted himself privately for examination more than once. The chief medical officer, the singular person Hux has entrusted with his care, is worried that the General has become a hypochondriac. Hux is evasive about his symptoms and concerns beyond the persistent cough and upset stomach. He has ordered the  Finalizer sanitized from top to bottom three times -- with the ship so large, when one cleaning operation ends, he has issued the next. He demands all shipments and craft inspected for any invasive flora or fauna, especially those coming from the Perlemian and Rimma trade routes. Shipments and craft that have traveled directly from the Bormea and Sluis sectors require additional decontamination and quarantine time. Personnel are routinely decontaminated as well, their flight suits subjected to special cleaning. 

None of it stops the moths. 

Hux has crushed them, drowned them, captured them, filled his waste compactor and dumped them directly into the incinerator. He has taken medicines both at the suggestion of the medical officer and by his own estimations, scouring the holonet for backwater folk remedies from every system from the Core to the Rim. Nothing helps. Nothing changes. 

The Finalizer goes for longer and longer stretches with no direct contact from Supreme Leader Snoke. So wrapped up is he is whatever else it is that he must dedicate his attention to, that Hux feels comfortable enough to begin to make small moves. Small, though they may be, but in nearly direct contradiction to the order that Snoke has arranged. He issues a short series of promotions that allow him to have eyes and ears on each ship in the Order's fleet. It's subtle, no one has been placed in a position of real power, but they don't need to be. 

Hux is consolidating intelligence from his Populist plants and his new posts when the call comes through, Snoke demands an audience. At first, Hux is nervous. Could he have made one move too many? Put someone in too high a place? He is relieved when the content of the call is revealed. 

"Within the next several cycles, I will be sending my most prized possession into your care, General." 

Snoke makes specific requests as to the accommodations his apprentice should be provided -- on the officers' deck. Clearly something more is afoot. Hux doesn't dare ask for more information. It will come in time. He closes the channel and sits back at his console, fingers tented beneath his chin. Images swim in his head, detail as clear and precise as the moment after they committed themselves to his memory: the boy who was not a boy, cloaked in smoke and and ash and dirt and blood -- the glassy look in his eyes and tremble of his hands -- the unsettling weight of his gaze before he departed. 

Hux coughs and two moths fight for purchase against his lips. 

Preparations are made with haste. Snoke's apprentice is assigned quarters. They are furnished as befits an officer of the First Order. In some ways, Hux is willing to play this game . Although he is sure that Snoke wishes to have his own agents aboard the Order's flagship through this newcomer, Hux hopes that he might also gain his own agent in Snoke's boudoir. The Finalizer is given no exact date for the arrival. They are simply told that they should expect to be hailed soon, the apprentice must complete an important task before he can come to rest. It is in the middle of the night-hours aboard the ship when Hux is roused. 

"Sir," his new lieutenant says steadily over the comm. "We are being hailed. It is an Order craft but the signal is not familiar." 

Hux rubs his eyes, trying to break through the haze of semi-consciousness faster. He asks what kind of craft it is. 

"It is an Upsilon-class command shuttle, sir." 

That wakes him. He instructs Mitaka to accept the hail and allow the craft to dock. 

The choice of craft is illuminating. This man is more than just an apprentice to Snoke -- or, he wants Hux to believe as much. Snoke is endlessly manipulative. It is increasingly difficult to stay a step ahead. Hux laughs to himself as he rides the shuttle cart from one end of the ship to the other and ventures down to the hangar level in the lift. If only it could be as easy as assigning Captain Phasma to the Supremacy to rid himself of that worry. 

He is standing in the hangar when the Upsilon finally docks. His throat is tight, his stomach clenching. It’s a familiar feeling. He clenches his teeth and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth as hard as he can. He almost cannot handle the sensation of swallowing. He watches the shuttle as its secured and powered down, as the ramp swings down and the inner door hisses open. 

The figure that steps out is tall and dark and imposing. There is something frightening about the steadiness of movement, the persistence of stride. Snoke's apprentice heads straight for Hux. 

"General," he says, voice modulated. His haunting, expressive face is totally obscurred. His hands don't tremble. 

Hux nods his head in respectful acknowledgement, "I'm afraid I don't know how to address you."

"I am Kylo Ren."

Hux does his best to hide his confusion, his question not adequately answered. "Well, I'm sure that you're weary from your journey, I'm to understand it was a long one. If I may, I'll show you to your quarters, for now?"

Kylo Ren gestures for Hux to lead the way. There is a faint buzzing that Hux cannot place. He thinks that it must be his own exhaustion, yanked from sleep as he was. Snoke's apprentice gives little indication if an opinion on his quarters and accommodations. He does nothing more than nod when Hux suggests that he might call for a droid to bring refreshment from the kitchens. He requests only that his belongings are brought immediately and carefully from the Upsilon before effectively dismissing Hux. 

Hux returns to his own quarters. He still has a few hours to attempt to rest before he is due on the bridge. 

The moth that emerges almost doesn't disturb him. Too tired and irritated to care, he lets it flutter through his quarters. It will tire and collapse. He will dispose of it when he has the fortitude.

Hux tenses when he feels someone approach on the bridge. None of his crew would approach him directly from behind this way, nor would any of them bke so silent in their movement. He draws himself as tall as he can, straightening from where he is bent over the command console, remotely directing a small fleet of fighters. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to cough. 

"General," his visitor says through the low modulation of his mask. 

Hux nods, "Kylo Ren. I didn't expect you here."

"No need to be so formal, General." Hux can hear the amusement there. 

"What shall I call you then?"

"Ren is fine, very much like your Lieutenants and Captains and all the rest."

"Ren is a title then."

"Yes, the name of my order."

"That is?"

"The Knights of Ren. It's an ancient form of study."

"I see. Kylo is your given name, yes?"

A sound comes through like a soft burst of static over a comm. It's followed by an even softer buzz that persists over the coming seconds. "I meant to observe the operation of the bridge, but I see you're uncomfortable."

Hux straightens himself further, he didn't think there was any discomfort in his posutre or expression. "You're welcome to do so."

"No, I'll leave you to it, General. I've a whole destroyer to learn the lay of. This evening, perhaps, we can speak?"

"Certainly." 

Ren departs as abruptly as he came. The buzzing suddenly disappears. 

Hux feels as though he is being watched for the duration of of his on-bridge shift. When he gives command to Mitaka -- not quite confident, but more than competent -- he returns to his quarters. He feels like he needs to prepare for this meeting although he has no idea how. Kylo Ren is anomaly. Hux can't say for sure if he is aware that Hux knows of his previous life, knows what happened on Dagobah. He can't say either, if Ren knows the galaxy is watching him, watching  _ for _ him, arguing over his fate. 

Hux is uneasy. 

He's nervous as he approaches the lower observation bubble. It's as close to neutral ground as he can find aboard the ship. Ren confirmed that meeting there would be acceptable in the short response to Hux's message. He wonders if Ren will already be there, early, or if he will arrive after Hux. 

He has had considerable difficulty in reconciling the public interest stories on Ben Solo with the man he met on Dagobah and even further with the man who is aboard now. The fluttering in his stomach, he reasons, is real anxiety. 

When Hux steps through the door to the bubble, his heart beats faster. Ren is there, a dark void against the bright light and color of the nebula that they are approaching. 

"General, did you mean to try to impress me with your choice of location?" There's something strange about the cadence and tone of Ren's voice. 

"Certainly not, Ren. It's simply a convenient spot. Private, not terribly far from anyone's accommodations."

"Of course. General, there are a few things that you must understand about my being here aboard the Finalizer."

"Really?" Hux can hardly keep the bored exasperation from his voice. "What is that?"

Ren makes an amused sound. Hux is quickly growing to resent it, the way Ren responds to things. "Firstly, that my appointment here is not temporary." 

Hux finally steps up beside Ren looking out over realspace outside the transparisteel. He can feel Ren turn toward him. 

"Second, that I wish for ours to be a partnership, not a rivalry." 

Hux's head and chest and gut flood with rage at all of the things Ren is implying. He turns, lip curled and something hateful poised on his lips and tongue. This is his ship, his command. His army.  _ No one _ , not even a direct agent of the Supreme Leader, will be allowed to usurp that from him. It all dies on his tongue, crumbling to ash before he can let loose. 

Ren's face is washed with deep shadow beneath his hood and highlighted brilliantly by the nebula.

His face.

Hux's gut clenches and his throat feels as though he's swallowed a handful steel wool. He needs to leave. He needs to get away before it happens. 

"Excuse me," he hisses. He turns on his heel and flees at as steady a clip as he can manage. 

He makes it nearly to his quarters. He must seize hold of the wall to lower himself slowly to his knees lest he fall. He coughs and retches, heaving painfully. The moth he produces is fully mature, if he recalls his research correctly. It crawls across his lips, little hook-like feet pinching and pulling. Its wings tickle as they flutter, not quite as stupefied as any of its predecessors. The bright white of its body is gone, sleek black instead. The iridescence of its wings is shot through with veins of dark, oily green. 

Hux does not remember much clearly. Phasma's shining boots cross his line of vision and then there is hazy darkness. He wakes hours later, lying atop his bed, still dressed save for the greatcoat and cap. He sits up too quickly and the universe spins. 

The moth.

"Sir," Phasma says when she approaches Hux in the mess. He has never seen her eat. He has never observed her to order food and bring it back to her quarters. It is strange to see her here. Hux looks up from the cup of weak broth he is nursing, quiet panic making him shiver. "You look much better."

"Thank you for your assistance, Captain."

She nods and sits across from him. The other officer who had been taking her meal gets up and moves to a different table in deference to them. 

"Where I was raised, they would say you're cursed." Phasma never speaks of her home planet. It was as if the Order made her from clay. She slides a glassine packet across the table and Hux immediately shoves it into the deep pocket of his coat. He nearly gags, the dried wings of long dead and forgotten moths brushing his fingers. "Does anyone else know?"

"Absolutely not."

**Author's Note:**

> Squick: Includes light descriptions of feeling ill followed by descriptions of winged insects moving in the mouth and across the lips in conjunction with my take on a less romantic, more spooky/scary interpretation of Hanahaki Disease. Hux deals with his by killing the insects while Ren does not. Includes a description of the state of Ren's quarters because he allows his insects to live.
> 
> You can find me on twitter and tumblr. Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
